


OF BOYS, MEN, AND ANGELS

by GreenWoman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:50:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWoman/pseuds/GreenWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all angels have wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	OF BOYS, MEN, AND ANGELS

**Author's Note:**

> 12/17/01
> 
> With thanks and apologies to the folks who gave us Supernatural, and most especially to Jim Beaver and Misha Collins, and to Peter Mayer and Jerry Hermann, and proceeding under the assumption that forgiveness is easier to ask than permission ....

~ ~ ~

We all were born beneath a troubled sky  
You’ve been waiting on the wings to carry you  
But what you dream you to got to live  
The love you want you got to give

Have a little faith in angels  
You never know where they might be

Have a Little Faith in Angels ~ Peter Mayer

~ ~ ~

"Yeah?"

The old hunter's voice was harsh, rough with sleep and whiskey and grief. Almost midnight on Christmas Eve, and who the hell would be calling him anyway? Sam wouldn't think of it, and Dean wouldn't ... well, Dean just wouldn't.

Static crackled and silence hissed in his ear. *Someone* was on the line.

"Who the hell is this?"

An indiscernible sound, and then a small voice choked out, "Um ... Mr. Singer?"

Jesus H. Christ.

"Ben?"

".....yes, sir."

Bobby sat up in bed. He scratched his chest through his dirty t-shirt, pulled the stale blankets up close against the chill of his bedroom, and tried to remember what it was like to talk to a child. A scared child, from the sound of things. He coughed, cleared his throat, and tried to clear his head.

"What is it, son?"

"Ah ... I'm sorry to call so late. I had to wait for Mom to go to bed."

"It's all right, kid."

"I'm really sorry."

"Ben." Damn it, don't scare the kid. "Ben," Bobby said, more quietly. "What is it? Are you okay? Is your mom all right?"

"...."

"Ben?" Kids ... damn it.

"Yes, sir. I mean, no sir. Um ... I need ... can I ask you something?"

Bobby squeezed his eyes shut, and sat up straighter in bed. He was already calculating the drive time to their house, how much gas he had in the car, the guns were loaded and there was salt and a bag of iron filings in the trunk, but he'd need--

"Mr. Singer?"

"It's Bobby, kid. What do you need?"

"I need ... I ...." And the line went quiet again.

Bobby said very quietly, "Ben, whatever you need from me, you've got it. You want me to come over there?"

"No sir," came the quick reply. "Well, not right now. Not tonight. But I ... I was wondering...."

Christ on a crutch. Kids either talked too damn much, or not near enough. "Yes, son?"

"Um ... I was wondering...." The line was quiet again for a long moment, and just as Bobby's patience jangled to its jittery limit, the boy spoke again.

"Mr. Singer, you know Dean's gone."

"Yes." God.

"I know he had to go. I know *why* he had to." Ben's words tumbled out, suddenly unchecked. "I *know.* But now I need to take care of Mom by myself ... I need to keep her safe. And I don't know how. And you ... you taught Dean how to keep people safe. He told me."

Something tightened painfully in Bobby's chest. "Well...."

"And I was wondering ... can you help me? Can you give me something to help me keep my Mom safe? 'Cos I really ... well, it's my job now, and I ... I need ... ah...."

"Look, son...." Shit. What could he say to a young boy who suddenly knew that the dark things of the world were looking over his shoulder? A young boy who knew he stood between those dark things and his family?

Hell. Not like Bobby had never done this before.

And he blinked through suddenly stinging eyes. :::Don't never end, does it, you old asshole?::: Bobby pinched his nose with calloused fingers, then opened his eyes and, in the darkness, his gaze fell on the dusty dresser. On a battered leather pouch that held a small brass pendant, returned to him after he'd given it to another young boy, almost exactly twenty years ago.

That long-ago phone call echoed in his head. *Uncle Bobby, I was wondering... can you help me? Can you give me something to help me keep my Dad safe?*

The hiss of the phone rang empty in his ear. He could hear the fear on the other end. Bobby coughed, the sudden tightening of his throat sharp and painful.

"Yeah, Ben," he growled, too harsh, but he couldn't help that. "Yeah, I got just the thing. I'll be over in the morning, okay?

"...yes sir ... it's Christmas. We'll be here."

"Good. Now, don't worry. Go to sleep."

"...yes sir..."

"Good. Good. Night, kid."

"...good night, Mr. Singer."

A quiet click, and the line went dead.

Bobby wrestled himself clear of the bedclothes and padded across the worn carpet to his dresser. He picked up the bag, and remembered Sam pressing it into his hand months ago. *He threw it away, Bobby ... but he may want it back, one of these days. Will you keep it for him?*

His thumb pressed the leather against the brass inside, felt the contours of the nose and eyes and small horns of the amulet. He could be at Lisa's place well before dawn, if he left now. Not like he was going to get any more sleep tonight.

*Damn kids.*

Bobby gathered up the rumpled pile of clothing tumbled in the chair next to the dresser, and headed for the bathroom.

A quiet figure perched on the roof of Bobby's house, back pressed against the chimney, and listened. *Angels are supposed to bring comfort to humans,* he mused. *And yet....*

He heard the sounds of this man his friends had made a friend to him as Bobby dressed in the dark, gulped down bitter reheated coffee, swore softly to himself while he stumbled out of his shabby house and climbed into a battered old car and drove off into the night to give a worthless, priceless totem to little boy in desperate need of hope.

A shudder of wings launched Castiel back to Heaven.

~ ~ ~

For I've grown a little leaner,  
Grown a little colder,  
Grown a little sadder,  
Grown a little older,  
And I need a little angel  
Sitting on my shoulder,  
Need a little Christmas now

A Little Christmas ~ Jerry Herman.

~ 30 ~


End file.
